The Scene

…waiting for a train

Rolling a die
On the brink
Of greatness

…on the tracks
Dust of the less fortunate

…across town
Someone waits for him
There are salty crimes
To be answered for

he slips into the sun

Journey to 4

When the blood covered
the stones,
3 was created

It was then
That the staple guns
Came out

1 was a motion – imperceptible
2 was an equation –
the question and the answer.
3 looked like a rain puddle.
3 was made of metal.

With a blowtorch,
The creation of 4 as a
fine piece of art

The whole is less than
The sum of its parts

Permanent subtraction,
Each a negative
Sucking from her own math

Under the bitter heat
This metal does not


The electric book hums,

breath gently, contently

escaping between pages.

What if you popped a balloon

and the air kept coming

and coming?

This conjuncture stays in

the library where it belongs

tended by the purple librarian.

In the living room

the dance has become

joints half eaten by microbes,

rhythmically popping.

What starts as a good time

will end in death

as it always does.

In the shelves,

a sleeping beast with my face.


My motives caravan

through a red, peerless desert.

Water travels just ahead

slightly faster than either I

or my mirror glass needs

can go.

Out here,

straws and dictionaries

present serious problems.

As though it were dead skin

scraped from the devil’s heel

by a pumice stone,

my purest motive blows

around the others.

If I flew my determinations

like kites,

attached to my stringy nerves,

could they rise to Heaven

and beg for a cloud?


I escape from the camera,

breaking through the

red tape

like a finish line.

What difference does it

make if the old house

turns blue?

The surveillance of my feet

reveals slick roads.

Confined actors in a play

poorly scripted.

The wasps I shared my

candies with

sting one another.

The other side of bureaucratic eyes

is a dim place,

shy from old rejections.


Agnostic calendars

are great for those

whose lives are spiced

with regret.

On the cutting board,

her right arm.

Home is smart.

Weather is dumb,

beating the bones

out of what already dies.


the months refuse

to coalesce into a year.

She wants what she

can’t have—

a private train.

Her old job

encased amber.

Dirty Poem with Christmas

Found poetry on my phone.

Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.